


A Dish Best Served Cold (Working Title)

by CrafterOfWords



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: "The boots", Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Crozier loses it completely, Dismemberment, Horror, Insanity, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Multi, Murder, Nobody pilfers James's body, Past Relationship(s), Psychological Trauma, Psychotic break, Revenge, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27517177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrafterOfWords/pseuds/CrafterOfWords
Summary: In a different life, Francis Crozier chooses a different path. When faced with the realization that Cornelius Hickey has not only murdered some of his beloved men, but also ravaged the grave of fellow Captain, James Fitzjames, his mind splinters and he finds satisfaction is meting out his vengeance.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Take note of the tags and archive warnings! This story starts out basically canon, but in coming chapters it will take a drastic turn toward the macabre. If you've read any of my previous work, this is absolutely UNLIKE anything I've ever written before!
> 
> Mature rating for graphic violence, body horror, and psychological trauma. 
> 
> Enjoy!

"Hold your fire, damn you!" Francis Crozier shouted, his voice splintering like fragments of bone, shattering as Charles Des Voeux's bullet ripped through Tom Hartnell's chest. Crozier scrambled to the ground, kneeling on the limestone shale to gently cradle Tom's head as the boy gasped. 

"You did well. You did so well, son," Crozier said softly. 

Tom tried to answer, but the only sound to escape him was a strangled wheeze.

"Go on. Go, be with your brother, now." Hot tears of anger and desperation slipped silently from his eyes as he stroked the face of the dying man. Dying boy? He surely could not have been more than 23 years old. Perhaps he had begun the journey as a boy, but he would die as a man, Crozier thought. Such a waste.

Crozier's expression hardened as he lifted his face to the men standing on the ridge: four in all, including the ship's boy Robert Golding, now revealed to be a rabid mongrel - a wolf in sheep's clothing. Charles Des Voeux appeared to be leading the party, flanked on either side by the giant, Manson and Thomas Armitage. Lieutenant Hodgson stood several paces behind them and off to one side, looking for all the world as confused and horrified by the scene as Crozier felt, himself. George Hodgson was no mutineer. Cornelius Hickey, that scheming bastard, was behind this; he had to be.

"I'll come with you," Crozier said, his voice soft but firm. Lieutenant Little made to protest, but Crozier ignored him. He was Captain, still, whether these traitors acknowledged it or not. "And you'll let the rest of these men go."

"You have our word," Des Voeux said. "We will, however, take your arms."

Crozier turned slowly to look at his first Lieutenant, Edward Little. "Gun down, Edward," he said, and when Edward did not immediately obey, Crozier stepped between the rifle's barrels and the traitors, calmly pressing the muzzle earthward and taking it from his trembling hands. In that moment, his heart swelled with love for Edward Little, his most faithful officer. His friend.

"Come back for Hartnell's body. Bury him. Then keep moving South, as planned," he said evenly. "Don't wait for me. If I can, I'll catch up."

"Sir…" Edward said, the word a question.

"You are to lead the men forward, Edward," Crozier repeated. Taking a step forward, he placed a reassuring hand heavily on Edward's shoulder. "You and the others will  _ live _ ."

Edward nodded, realization dawning in his dark, troubled eyes. "I understand the order, sir," he said.

"Then let me hear it," Crozier said, louder now, taking a step backward.

"We will live!" Edward repeated. 

Crozier nodded, gesturing South with his head. Edward Little and Charles Best reluctantly made their way, leaving Captain Crozier alone with the mutinous men. He handed the rifle to Charles Des Voeux, followed by his own pistol, and then they began the long trek east, to the spot where Hickey and his ghouls had made their camp.

***

Hickey's small camp was tucked in a shallow ravine, sheltered by a limestone ridge that bordered it on two sides. The first thing Crozier saw as he approached, with Thomas Armitage's rifled pressed between his shoulder blades, was the sledge boat they had stolen. It was the only object that still retained any color, with its conspicuously carefree wash of sea blue-green. The rest of the scene lay enshrouded in bland beige; the tents, the packs, even the men themselves blended in with the landscape, as if they were becoming one with this endless stone wasteland. 

Hickey stood several paces off with his back to the rest of the men, who huddled at the center of the camp, hunched and ashamed. Hickey, in contrast, stood tall and proud, gazing into the distance at some luminous dreamscape only he could see. He wore an officer's greatcoat, though Crozier refused to make any guess as to which of his officers it might have once belonged. However, instead of making the caulker's mate look dignified, it simply exaggerated his ridiculous pretentiousness and his scrawny frame.

Armitage nudged Crozier with the tip of his rifle, urging him onward to where Cornelius Hickey stood. Hickey greeted him in his typically condescending fashion, not deigning even to turn his head and look at Crozier. His whiskers had grown long enough that his features appeared more than ever to reflect the vermin he'd shown himself to be: a rat, through and through. 

Crozier barely registered Hickey's greeting. He was replaying Tom Hartnell's last words as he lay dying out on the rocks, betrayed by men he'd once called "friend." His chest felt heavy - full of water or lead and straining not to burst open. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage and slaughter every last man present in this God forsaken camp.

He wanted to die. 

But then he remembered Lieutenant Hodgson. Perhaps he could still help one of his men. 

"Why not let Lieutenant Hodgson go back? Mr. Diggle, Dr. Goodsir, Manson... They could accompany Lieutenant Hodgson."

Hickey smiled then, and there was no look of depravity on Earth nor in Hell that could have turned Crozier's blood colder. 

"He was the first of your officers I enlisted," Hickey said, clearly taking pleasure in this assumed blow to Crozier's morale.

"Well, I forgive him," Crozier said, determined to stay calm, no matter what bait Hickey might set before him. "I forgive all of them... but you."

"Do you include yourself in that forgiveness?" Hickey asked.

"I won't know until the end of this," he replied truthfully.

Something shifted in Hickey's gaze as he continued, finally looking Crozier square in the face. "You hold yourself to the standard of a man you are not… nor should ever have tried to be. You've let shame drive you on and on. It's part of why we are where we are."

Crozier felt his fists clench at his sides. It was true enough. He could have done more.  _ Should _ have done more to guard against things coming to this end. Would that he had not given in to the siren's song of liquor, or that he'd kept his head in confronting Sir John. Perhaps he could have formed an alliance with James earlier on…

_ James. _

The memory of James Fitzjames was as painful as a full force slap in the face. At night, it was the face of James Fitzjames that haunted his dreams, contorted in painful spasms as the scurvy sucked the life from him like a vampire. James, who had sacrificed so much, without anyone ever guessing the truth about his heritage. James, who had made himself vulnerable to Francis, alone.  _ James, who he had loved. _

"Then why have me brought here at all, at great risk to your men?" Crozier spat. He needed to restrain himself, if only for the sake of James. 

_ James _ , to whom he had made a solemn promise, that he would live on. They had buried him deep, completely concealed by the rock and gravel, where no greedy hand would stray.

"Tuunbaq," said Hickey.

Crozier squinted at him, perplexed.

"A spirit that dresses as an animal," Hickey continued. "Yet we shot it with a cannon and drew blood. How do you reconcile that?"

"I can't," Crozier said. "There's much about this voyage I can't reconcile." 

But Hickey, maddeningly, persisted. "What mythology is this creature at the center of?"

"About the creature, I have no answers, Mr. Hickey," Crozier repeated. "We were not meant to know of it." 

Hickey turned dismissively and called out to Mr. Des Voeux, who approached with his head bowed deferentially. His shoulders were stooped like an old man's and he wore a sort of makeshift turban on his head. He was a caricature of the courageous, clever First Mate he'd once been on board HMS Erebus. Indefatigable, Crozier had once called him. He had a few more choice words to describe the man now.

"Have Mr. Goodsir tend to Mr. Crozier's injuries. And see that he's not harmed again," Hickey said.

"He took a stumble," Des Voeux replied, presumably by way of explanation. It was true; he had stumbled... when Mr. Armitage had shoved him down the hill a quarter of a mile back, sending him flying face-first into the jagged limestone shale. Crozier hadn't even realized he'd been bleeding. He felt no pain - not physical pain, at least. 

Simply put, Francis Crozier felt... numb. He felt as if the air itself had turned to treacle, permeating himself and everything around him. It was a struggle for him to turn in place and follow Hickey with his gaze, but the very next moment, everything changed.

If the air had been viscous moments ago, in an instant it had turned to fire and ash. A red mist filtered over Crozier's vision and he thought briefly that he might pass out. He prayed that he had misjudged - that what he'd seen had not been what he  _ thought  _ he'd seen. Surely, it had been an illusion. An hallucination. A mental condition exacerbated by the lead flowing through his blood and the scurvy eating away at his joints. 

But when the red curtain had lifted, and Crozier came back to himself, he realized that his senses were just as sharp as they had ever been. Emblazoned on the boots that Hickey wore were the initials "J.F."

_ James. _

Something happened in that moment - something that no one, least of all Crozier himself, could ever describe or understand. One might have expected him to crumble - to weep uncontrollably - to dash his own head against the stones until his brains spilled out in a puddle of blood and gore, or to rage and scream, even attack Cornelius Hickey. But Francis Crozier did none of these things. Instead, it was as if something buried deep within him - something that had been bowed nearly in half under the tremendous burden of maintaining sanity -  _ snapped _ . 

Suddenly, nothing mattered. He felt light - unencumbered - almost giddy, as if he'd just drank a whole bottle of his finest Irish whiskey. The scales that had covered his eyes fell away and he was suddenly aware of everything around him. Every scrape of weary feet over limestone shale, every beat of every heart, every breath the men took echoed in his ears. 

Francis Crozier was free, and it had taken his imprisonment to make him realize it. Charles Des Voeux grabbed him roughly by one arm and shoved him in the direction of Mr. Goodsir's tent, but Crozier kept his gaze fixed only on Mr. Hickey as his cracked and bloodied lips stretched into a leering smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Crozier

My ears are ringing. I'm trying to open my eyes, but they refuse. I see nothing. Only darkness. A moment of panic gives way to relief as I realize that I am not blind. My eyelids have only been sewn shut. Just a bit of thread woven along the lash line. 

No, not thread. 

Sealing wax, perhaps, like what they used on that poor fool marine, Sgt. Heather. 

After a few minutes of working my eyelids, alternating pinching them shut and stretching them, they finally open with a crackling sound. Of course, they haven't been sealed shut with wax, but were simply crusted over with blood and sweat. 

My hands are bound behind my back and I can't wipe away the flakes that cling to my lashes so I twist in the spot where they've propped me, looking for something I can rub my face against. 

"I can probably spring those for you later." The voice filters through my consciousness like blood seeping through a bandage. It is Mr. Diggle, lying on a cot beside me. "You could probably run before dawn."

I have no intention of running. 

"I would be most grateful if you could, Mr. Diggle," I reply quietly. "But I'll not be running. There are men here, like yourself, who are not complicit with Mr. Hickey's treachery."

"How can I help?"

"When is the camp least active?" 

Mr. Diggle considers. "Just before dawn, sir. I don't know for certain, Captain, but I'd wager there's been nights when even the men on watch done fell asleep."

"Then that is when we'll strike, Mr. Diggle. When the time comes, follow my lead."

Mr. Diggle nods, his movements frenetic and twitchy. I don't know why he is afraid. After all, he isn't the one shackled. I blink, and a speck of dried blood flutters free of my lashes to lodge at the corner of my eye, making me swear. I finally twist until I can rub my face against the canvas of the tent wall.

***

I do not know how much time has passed, but the next time I open my eyes, darkness has fallen on the camp. Mr. Diggle is still lying on his cot, but is now snoring. I wonder whether any of us will live to see the end of this after all. 

Likely not.

It doesn't matter.

I lean towards the sleeping cook and nudge him with my elbow. He startles awake but I hush him before he can make a sound. 

"You said you could spring my bonds," I whisper.

"Yes, yes, of course, Captain," he responds, scrambling to rise from his cot. His movements are too erratic, and it bothers me. One careless move and the whole camp could be alerted to our plans. 

"Calm yourself, Mr. Diggle. We must surely have a few hours before first light, yes?"

He mumbles something, but his demeanor remains much the same. I wonder if the scurvy has begun to chip away at his reflexes, if not his sanity. He was never a jumpy sort onboard Terror; this behavior is new.

It doesn't take long before I feel the tension between my wrists ease. "Well done, Mr. Diggle," I say, stretching my arms. My muscles and joints are sore and stiff, and my wrists are bruised from the cuffs. Finally, I am able to bring my hands to my face and wipe away the remaining flecks of blood, dirt, and sweat. My eyes are burning, cleansing tears flowing down my cheeks. 

This is the best night of my life.

Tonight, I will have justice for all the men whose lives were wasted in this frozen hellscape.

It is young Edmund Hoar, the captain's steward from Erebus who is sitting outside my tent. I use my loosened shackles to choke him, pulling hard against my own chest. I feel his trachea give way with a satisfying crunch and he is unable to make a sound as I drag him backward into the tent. 

Mr. Diggle is wild-eyed, panicked. I wonder exactly what he expected to happen, but I do not ask him. It doesn't matter anyway. What's done is done. Still, he stares at me like a frightened rabbit.

"I did what must be done," I explain to him, and he gives me the same convulsive nod he gave me earlier. He has become a liability, I realize. "Stay here and guard the body," I tell him, as I crouch down to collect Hoar's rifle and make sure it is loaded. It is. "I'm going to retrieve Mr. Goodsir," I tell Diggle. "Stay calm."

I remember which tent belonged to Mr. Goodsir, from when he cleaned my wounds earlier that day. He is a changed man, just as I have become, and I believe he will aid me in my quest for justice. 

James will be avenged. 

Tom Hartnell, John Irving, and all the men who have died, either by Mr. Hickey's hand or as a byproduct of his schemes will have vengeance.

When I enter Goodsir's tent, I am surprised to find him awake, seated at his desk with his chest of medicines open before him. He looks up quickly at my entry and I realize that he has a plan of his own. When he recognizes my face, his fear gives way to surprise, and then relief. 

"Captain," he says, rising from his desk and hurrying over to me. "How is this possible?"

"There is no time to explain," I tell him. "Mr. Hoar is dead. This is his weapon. I need your help, Dr. Goodsir."

"Yes, of course. I-I-I'll do anything," he assures me. 

"Good. Now, which tent belongs to Mr. Hickey?"

***

Cornelius Hickey's tent is, of course, at the very back of the camp, in what I suppose to be the place of honor. He fancies himself a god among men, I think. We'll see how he fancies himself come morning. 

There is no one stirring in the camp but the three of us. Mr. Diggle has joined Mr. Goodsir and myself, and as we move past each tent, we tie the flaps securely shut from without. This will not prevent anyone from escaping, but it may buy us a few precious moments if an alarm is sounded.

In his tent, Mr. Hickey lies atop a pile of blankets, covered by his pilfered greatcoat. I spot James's boots in the corner of the tent and make a mental note to retrieve them when we are through with our task. They say that only a man with a clear conscience sleeps soundly. If that is true, then Cornelius Hickey is well and truly out of his mind, for he does not stir, even when all three of us stand over his still body. Mr. Goodsir is armed with a large, jagged shard of glass, Mr. Diggle clutches a rock, held aloft and ready to strike, and I hold Mr. Hoar's rifle, barrel pointed straight at Mr. Hickey's head.

It would be so simple to act in this moment. The gun is cocked and ready to fire. All I need do is pull the trigger, and there will be nothing but a crimson smudge of pulp and brains staining the blankets beneath him. I  _ could  _ do it. More than this, I  _ want _ to do it. But I have always been a patient man, and I have so much more in store for Mr. Hickey than a quick and merciful death.

I nod at Mr. Diggle, who stands at the head of Hickey's palette and I lower my scope so that the rifle is aimed straight at Hickey's crotch. I kick him, hard, in the shin. His eyes open, but I see no fear in those frozen pools of blue. He gazes back at me impassively, as if we are old friends. 

"Make one sound and I'll blow your cock to the Sandwich Isles," I growl. The lunatic has the gall to smile at me and I am tempted to follow through on my threat. He doesn't see Mr. Diggle until the rock is inches from his skull.

For a moment I'm afraid Mr. Diggle has killed him, but upon closer inspection I can tell he is breathing. "Well done, men," I tell them, and I think they are beginning to relax a little, which is comforting. "We have a lot of work left to do before the sun rises."


	3. Chapter 3

_ Cornelius Hickey _

He is disoriented at first, his eyelids heavy and unwilling to open. The earth is tilted, or else  _ he _ is. Perhaps both. He lifts his head and forces his eyes open, though he squints against the bright morning sunlight. It is only now that he realizes he is completely immobilized, bound hand and foot, and secured to a wooden post. 

"Good morning, Mr. Hickey," comes an all-too-familiar voice, and he tilts his head to see Captain Crozier standing in front of him. No, not Captain. Not anymore. Not since  _ he, _ Cornelius, took over this miserable expedition. 

"Mornin', Mr. Crozier," he says. His throat feels full of gravel and he tries to clear it, but his mouth is too dry. "Well, I suppose you're gonna tell me, but perhaps you could speed up the process a little bit. What's goin' on?" 

Crozier stares at him for a long moment with that strange smile he'd seen the day before. He's never seen Crozier look like that before. It's unnerving, but he doesn't let anyone see his unease. Cornelius Hickey is  _ always _ in control.

"Indeed," Crozier replies, his smile broadening to a leer. "I have a little surprise for you, Mr. Hickey - a gift, if you will. I'm going to give you the chance to find out which of your men are loyal to you, and which are not." He licks his cracked lips, still smiling, and finally steps aside so that Hickey can see past where he'd been standing.

All of his men -  _ Hickey's _ men - are huddled in a cluster, several yards from where he stands. Charles Des Voeux, Solomon Tozer, Magnus Manson, Thomas Armitage, William Pilkington, Robert Golding are all gagged, with their hands and ankles bound. Standing just outside the circle are George Hodgson, Dr. Goodsir, and the cook, Mr. Diggle, each wielding a rifle, pointed at the group. 

"Where is Mr. Hoar?" Hickey asks, immediately noting his absence. Cornelius Hickey is nothing if not observant; it is a fact upon which he prides himself.

"Oh, Mr. Hoar wasn't able to join us," Crozier says with a shake of his head. "He had an unfortunate accident in the night, you see. He's dead."

The news doesn't surprise Cornelius - of course it doesn't. He should have known. Still, the knowledge that Crozier, who was to be Hickey's prize captive, likely murdered one of  _ his _ men is irritating. He tries to think, but his mind is muddled, and he wonders how long he was unconscious. 

"Pity," he says, pulling his gaze away from the men and back to Crozier. "Regarding the other matter, my men are loyal to me," he says confidently. "Most of them, anyway. Obviously I was mistaken about a  _ couple _ ." He glares at Lt. Hodgson as he says this. 

Hickey has had no illusions about Dr. Goodsir's allegiance, and he's known that the cook, Diggle, has no love for him either. But Hodgson, who he'd been grooming for several weeks, if not months, is a disappointment. 

"Do you think so, Mr. Hickey?" Crozier asks. "Let's see, shall we? Which man is your first in command?"

Hickey considers for only a moment before answering confidently, "Sergeant Tozer."

Crozier nods, then pulls his pistol from its holster. Hickey hadn't noticed it until that moment, but of course it stands to reason that Crozier would have retrieved it. No matter. He glares defiantly at Crozier, daring him to test the mettle of his men. Solomon, at least, would never betray him. Crozier saunters slowly over to the circle of men, waving his pistol around before him, and for the first time, Hickey wonders whether Crozier has found a store of whiskey somewhere.

"Sergeant Tozer, would you please step forward?" Crozier says, holding his gun aloft. Diggle, who is closest to where Tozer stands, nods at Tozer, who then clumsily shuffles out of the circle and up to Crozier. He looks shaken, and he does not speak.

"Mr. Hickey informs me that you are his next in command," Crozier says. He seems unable to stand still, pacing frenetically, a few steps back and forth in front of Tozer. "He believes you will remain loyal to him. Is that true?"

Tozer stands straight and tall with his chin high. His gaze is fixed in the distance, over Crozier's shoulder, and Hickey swells with pride. His good little soldier boy. Yes, he will remain faithful, Hickey has no doubt. 

"Aye, sir," says the marine.

"Impressive, Sergeant," Crozier says, pausing to look directly at him. "Tell me, would you die for him?" Tozer's eyes widen and his gaze shifts to focus properly on Crozier. He does not speak immediately, and Hickey finds himself growing irritable. What is he waiting for?

"Of course he would," Hickey spits. "Solomon, tell him. We're in this together, yes?"

Tozer steals a quick glance at Mr. Hickey, but cannot meet his eye. "I… Yes, sir," he says, though Hickey is not nearly convinced by the statement. He clenches his fists, white-knuckled. 

Crozier utters a short laugh. He cocks the pistol and points it straight at Sgt. Tozer's head. "Are you  _ certain  _ about that?" he asks, his voice quiet but deadly. 

Solomon swallows visibly. He is trembling, and Hickey grits his teeth. 

"Fuck sake, Solomon. He's not gonna kill you!" Hickey shouts. "Look at 'im! He's taken a bloody oath, or whatever it is they make captains do." 

Crozier says nothing, his pistol still pointed at Tozer's head. Solomon's eyes dart back and forth, pleading silently for help. His lip quivers and Hickey thinks he might piss himself. _ Pitiful excuse for a Royal Marine _ , he thinks. They'll all be better off without him. 

Finally, Tozer shakes his head. "No, sir," he says. 

"Say the words, Sergeant," Crozier says, his finger hugging the trigger. "Tell Mr. Hickey that you renounce your loyalty to him."

Tozer turns shakily and looks at Hickey. "I… renounce… my…"

The sentence is never finished. A cacophony of shouts, screams, and profanities erupts from the men huddled together, as a fine mist of red fills the air, slowly wafting downward to coat the rock in a blanket of blood. 

Crozier has pulled the trigger. 

Solomon Tozer's body jerks backward, seeming to hover in mid-air before crumpling to the ground. What remains of his head is a ragged stub of bloody pulp, bone, and brain matter. Sergeant Solomon Tozer is dead.

Hickey's eyes widen in shock and horror. Some of his men are crying or whimpering, cowering and clinging to one another like ridiculous overgrown children. Hodgson, Diggle, and Goodsir look equally shaken, though they hold their ground. Hickey wants to scream at all of them to shut the fuck up, but his voice is gone. 

"Would anyone else like to declare their loyalty to Mr. Hickey?" Crozier shouts over the din. No one moves and no one speaks. 

"What do you think, he's going to waste you all? Look at yourselves," Hickey shouts, his voice found once more, enraged by this blatant lack of respect for his leadership. "You're cowards! All of you!" 

"Sergeant Tozer was a coward," Crozier shouts over the din, quieting the frantic men. "If he had not renounced his loyalty to Mr. Hickey, I might have spared his life. Alas, I have no use for men who would turn traitor twice over."

"He was lyin'!" Hickey shouts, spittle flying. "He wouldn't 'ave left. You just murdered a man for tryin' to survive, Mr. Crozier."

Crozier quirks an eyebrow, that disconcerting half grin returning to his face as he turns to look at Hickey. "Well, now, that's rich, coming from the mouth of the man who assaulted a lady, murdered an  _ entirely innocent _ man, and is responsible for how many other senseless deaths? Not to mention our poor ship's dog! How is it that you've stumbled across such piety, Mister Hickey?"

"I did what I had to do to live," Hickey replies, his gaze murderous. "Sergeant Tozer wasn't threatening you. He was scared."

"Oh, aye. He was scared alright. Scared enough to desert  _ you _ to save his own skin. In that sense, I've done him a favor in putting him out of his misery." Crozier inclined his head, staring numbly at the inanimate body of Tozer. "It is a shame, I know. But you and I, Mr. Hickey… We are men of the world, are we not? We thrive on experience and sensation. I wanted you to have the experience of seeing one of your best men killed for no damn reason at all."

Hickey stares, wide-eyed, and for the first time since Crozier arrived, he understands that he is no longer dealing with the noble, longsuffering Captain Francis Crozier. This man is someone - or some _ thing _ else, entirely.

"Now," Crozier says, addressing the other bound men. "What will the rest of you choose? Are you devoted to your leader?" He gestures dismissively to indicate Hickey. "Will you remain loyal if the man you perceived as your salvation becomes your damnation? Do not imagine for a moment that he would risk his skin for any of you."

No one speaks. No one moves. Cornelius Hickey begins to laugh. "You see, Mr. Crozier? They will stand with me, come what may! Isn't that right, men?" But he watches with growing horror as one by one, the men fall to their knees in surrender, not to him, but to Crozier! For a moment, he is too furious to think, let alone speak, and when he sees that Crozier is smiling, he feels that his head will explode with the rage building there like steam in a pressure cooker. 

"I have no desire to harm you men," Crozier says, holstering his pistol. "If you will each renounce your loyalty to Mr. Hickey and surrender any arms you may possess, you may return to camp with Lieutenant Hodgon." 

The men give panicked, spastic nods, and Crozier turns to Mr. hickey with a look of pure smugness. Hickey snarls, showing his teeth, then spits in Crozier's direction. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. His men will come back for him. They are only acting a part to save their own skins, just as he would in their situation. It means nothing. Absolutely nothing. 


End file.
